


Collision Chorus

by feistymuffin



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, Angst and Feels, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27039403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feistymuffin/pseuds/feistymuffin
Summary: It would be easier if he could just forget, but Tom has known for a long time that he isn't the lucky sort.3 years ago, Tord left the band and rose to fame on his own... but since then EDDZWRLD has been climbing the entertainment industry's rungs too. The two couldn't possibly collide.
Relationships: Patryck/Paul (Eddsworld), Tom/Tord (Eddsworld)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 56





	1. "Why" is a 4-Letter Word

**Author's Note:**

> heyo! so i'm new to this fandom but i've been happily thrown headfirst into the shit and no one can wrench me back out again
> 
> enjoy! :>
> 
> p.s. the story will be subject to minor editing changes as i go because my memory has Difficulty some days u feel

The distant roar of the crowd sits, heavy but comforting, on Tom’s shoulders as his fingers idly dance across the strings of his favourite acoustic. At the other end of the small room Edd is lounged across the entirety of the worn leather loveseat, tapping on his iPhone while they both wait for Matt to finish arguing with his hair stylist about what he wants her to do. They’ve already done warmups and their own hair and makeup, minimal at best when they’re just doing a show and not some photoshoot, was completed almost an hour ago but Tom and Edd are no strangers with Matt’s ego and had insisted on arriving early to the venue for this exact reason. 

Not that they’d ever tell Matt that. 

Tom has to stop himself from smirking when the stylist lets out an aggravated sound and stomps from the room without another word, leaving Matt frowning after her from his spot in front of the vanity. Then his gaze shifts to Tom, whose face is still blessedly emotionless, and he says grumpily, “What’s her problem?”

“Beats me,” Tom shrugs. He pauses his playing to take a healthy swig from his whiskey on the table, but when Matt turns back to the mirror with a huff to finish his hair Tom shares a thoroughly amused glance with Edd over the rim of his glass. To Edd he adds, “Wanna warm up some more while Princess Matilda gets pretty?”

“I’m always pretty,” Matt says without missing a beat.

Edd rolls his eyes and beckons Tom over with a lazy flap of his hand. Once Edd has shifted to a sitting position and Tom is beside him he opens his mouth to speak, but then he hesitates and something crosses over his expression before he gets a word out.

Tom knows that look. “What?” he asks slowly, suspiciously. 

For a moment Edd visibly flails for an answer, but then the set of his brow becomes stubborn—and guilty—and he looks away when he says, “It’s not important. I’ll tell you later.”

 _If it’s not important then why do you look like that?_ Tom wonders irritably, itching with frustration. “Later,” he confirms, biting down on something less courteous, but it still sounds more like a command than anything. 

Edd nods despite his discomforted expression, compounding Tom’s concern. What could be so daunting for Edd to resist telling him? It grates on his spine, makes his hackles rise on impulse at the new knowledge of something hidden from him. Something serious enough to give Edd some incredibly unusual trepidation.

The loose promise of discussing it after the show is enough for Tom to let it go for now, even through his concern, so with that he grabs his guitar from its rest against the couch and starts plucking a tune for Edd to harmonize.

* * *

Tom’s shirt is damp with sweat from neckline to hem, dark with it under his arms and around his throat, and he knows it’s just the stage lights, or their high energy playing or the modest size of the room keeping him uncomfortably warm. He knows he’s just too drunk, or that the combination of all of it is making him _see_ things, because more than twice Tom swears he’s spotted that strange hairstyle in the crowd, that familiar shape and that familiar face that haunts him whenever he closes his eyes. But every time he blinks and squints at the person they’ve disappeared from view, only to pop up again moments later somewhere else.

It jars him out of his vibe every time, and he has to refocus and push the stranger from his mind before he can look out into the crowd again. It’s just someone who copied his hairstyle. It’s just someone who dyed their hair to that exact shade of soft, nearly-orange brown. It’s just… someone else. Someone who isn’t Tord.

In three years, somehow Tom has managed to avoid nearly all exposure to his former bandmate. Of course, since Tord rose to fame and the remainder of the band did the same—albeit slower—they’ve gotten the occasional question of “So, what _did_ happen with you and Tord Lawson?” during interviews. It’s become an unspoken rule that Edd and Matt are best to answer those questions, because Tom and his bandmates don’t hold any illusions about his volatility for the subject; if he opened his mouth, nothing nice would come out.

The uniqueness of Tord’s image is part of what made him excel so quickly; the fodder that his fans readily fed off of was that Tord, solo or not, was startlingly unlike anyone else in the industry. It’s that uniqueness that drew talent agents and big label companies to push him for a solo career, a push that they all had thought was impossible for Tord to cave under.

It sure as shit wasn’t the first time he’s been wrong, and Tom knows it won’t be his last.

By the time their set ends he’s a wreck. His hands shake when he passes off his guitar to a roadie waiting in the wings, and his steps are heavy and uncoordinated. _Too hot, too drunk,_ he thinks beneath a tepid fog, but Tom’s known himself for a while and the excuses are thinner than the sheen of sweat he feels between his shoulder blades. No matter his delirium, he doesn’t dare think the thoughts that lurk under the darkness of his memories. All of the questions that he wishes he could ask but doesn’t dare to, both out of fear for his own actions and fear for what the answers will be, sit at the back of his tongue and fester until he’s swallowing compulsively to get rid of them.

A cool hand rests on his back and Tom flinches as he looks up from where he’s leaning against the hallway wall somewhere backstage. He doesn’t remember how he got there but he sees Edd and Matt through the blur coating his vision, feels Edd’s hand on him, steadying him, and he gives them a smile he doesn’t feel. 

“C’mon, let’s get you to the bus,” Edd says, sounding both worried and frustrated. Tom doesn’t blame him as his friends lead him, staggering but self-sufficient, to their tour bus and get him inside. Once up the short stairs and past the living area he crashes unceremoniously into his bunk, shuffling his weight until his feet are off the floor and somewhat in the bed, and at the feel of his cool pillow on his flaming face he lets out a pleased sigh and shuts his eyes.

“Did you drink too much again?” Matt asks him.

Tom thinks about it but doesn’t bother moving his mouth away from the pillow as he squints up at them. “Prob’ly.” 

By the look on their faces they don’t believe it and even Tom himself knows that’s not what this is, knows it with such certainty that it churns his stomach in a violent, aching twist when he thinks of that silhouette. But Edd and Matt don’t… know. He can’t explain why even a glimpse of someone who resembles their old bandmate is enough to send him into a spell, to give him anxiety on stage badly enough to affect his playing. He can’t, especially when it wasn’t even Tord in the crowd. He knows it can’t be, so he rolls until his back is exposed to his friends and he schools his voice into something that won’t give away the emotional clog in his throat. “I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

There’s a long pause, long enough that Tom can feel his toes curling with fervid, cold anxiety in his shoes, and then Edd says quietly, “Okay. We’ll handle things tonight, so you get some rest.”

Tom’s relief quarrels with his guilt, his shame, so he doesn’t get out anything more than an affirming hum. A hand touches his shoulder once, just the press of a palm, and then the curtain to his bunk is gently drawn shut and he hears Matt and Edd exit the bus again.

Tom curls in on himself, wishing like hell for the comfort of a home he doesn’t have, and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes until it hurts.

* * *

Two days later, Tom is settled cozily in the bus’ lone bean bag chair— _his_ bean bag chair—with a glass of rum in one hand, a pen in the other and a well-worn notebook in his lap. Matt has a movie playing quietly on the little TV above the dining table and they’ve just gone through Pittsburgh when Edd comes to sit beside him with the most uneasy expression that Tom’s ever seen on him.

He doesn’t like that look, and he can feel his own face slacken with potent fear that travels the length of his entire body, a swooping cold leaving him brittle. But he doesn’t speak, doesn’t make a sound as Edd sits on the padded ottoman to his left and turns a regretful look his way.

“We need to talk, Tom,” he says, not quite hushed but soft enough that Matt won’t hear him. Edd waits, but Tom hasn’t got the wherewithal to even fathom a response so he continues with a small sigh, “The award show tomorrow night in New York. It… Listen, I did everything I could, but we don’t have much pull with the MTV representatives even with Patryck’s help.”

Tom spares a glance in Patryck’s direction and sees their manager sitting in the front passenger seat, tapping and typing away on his tablet with his glasses perched low on his nose. He’s been a great fit for them the past two years and Tom would readily say he’s a key source of their success, but he knows this has nothing to do with Patryck, not really, so he looks back to Edd’s pallid face and croaks, “Spit it out, Edd.”

Edd rubs a hand across his brow, eyes cast down for a long moment, but when he lifts them again Tom wishes he hadn’t. Before Edd even opens his mouth, Tom sees the resigned pity and sorrow there and realizes he didn’t give his best friend enough credit for figuring things out on his own. Not nearly enough credit. 

Tom can’t bear to see his mouth form the word so when Edd speaks Tom diverts his gaze to his lap, to the scrawling lyrics he’d been meandering through. But the sound of his name out loud after only existing in his mind for so long… it still reaches far too deep, and it wrenches a small, terrible and pathetic noise from the pit of his heart.

“Tord is… He’ll be there, and he’s sitting beside us.”

Tom can feel himself nod, feels the light touch of Edd’s hand on his shoulder. He’s saying something about the audacity of the MTV reps, purposely sitting them together in the hopes of some kind of drama since there are so few facts about their history with Tord. In a way Tom hears it, but as he stands and makes his way to the bathroom in a daze Edd’s voice trails off and Matt says something, asks something, but Tom already has his head over the toilet and he’s ejecting everything he’d eaten that morning.

He doesn’t hear what Matt and Edd are saying as he splashes cold water in his face, but when he shuts off the tap and dries off their conversation dies. When he steps out of the bathroom Matt is there wearing a worried smile, Edd at his shoulder with sad understanding coating his own smile.

“You okay, Tom?”

Tom pastes what he hopes is a return smile onto his face. “Yeah,” he murmurs, shouldering past them. “Yeah, I’m fine. Probably just a stomach bug or something.”

Neither Matt nor Edd look convinced now, but Tom ignores them and goes back to his bean bag, settling into it briefly before grabbing his glass and draining the whole thing. His empty stomach roils at the abuse but Tom keeps it down, and he turns back to his lyrics with a single-mindedness he hasn’t felt in years.

* * *

Tom was an idiot. He’d been a complete idiot if he thought he’d be able to avoid Tord forever, when they’re both in the same industry, the same genre, the same _country_. The Columbus show three days ago was a wake-up call with the Tord look-alike, but Edd’s news about the award show was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Over three years of torturous wondering what they—what _he_ did wrong, countless questions of _why_ even as he knew full well that he’d never really know why. 

On some level Tom knows they all saw it coming. Tord hadn’t been all that subtle in the days before his departure, and he left a letter when he went, of course. It was addressed to all of them but Tom never read it. He saw the looks on Edd and Matt’s faces as they stood in their tiny, shitty kitchen and read it over, and the abrupt new reality began to sink in. That was enough.

But in the pain Tom found a modicum of closure that he knows he’d never have had if Tord had stayed. The perpetual unknown of _What are you to me?_ that plagued him whenever they were together wouldn’t have allowed it. Tom knew it then and he knows it now: Tord didn’t feel the same, but he needed the severance of their connection for the knowledge to feel real. 

Optimism isn’t his best subject, not by a long shot, but up until the point he left Tom really did think that Tord might stay—that he might even come back. There had been promising little moments; breaths of time where he would catch Tord watching him, or they’d be standing just a sliver too close together, but as more and more time wore on without any contact Tom’s hopes died beneath the unrelenting, overwhelming crush of Tord’s absence. 

And now… Now an entire night lies ahead of him where he has to stay calm while Tord sits within fifteen feet of him—when Tom had been convincing himself for the past three years that he’d never see Tord again because he didn’t think they’d ever really make it without him. He definitely hadn’t thought they would get nominated for an MTV Video Music Award, never mind two of them. 

“Hellooo,” Matt’s voice calls through the hotel door suddenly, and Tom is thrown from his depressing train of thought. He blinks, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, and slowly as his awareness comes back he watches the emotionless mask fit neatly over his features. His hands are shaking, but at least he tied his bowtie before spacing out.

“Coming,” he calls out, relieved when his voice doesn’t betray his emotion. On his way out of the bathroom Tom swipes the flask from his small travel bag and fills it with four of the sample vodka bottles in the minifridge, then tosses them all in the trash and tucks the flask into his pocket. He gives himself one final check from head to toe, sparing a second to lament his unruly, straight and thick ashen brown hair, and then opens the door for Matt and Edd.

They’re both dressed to the nines like him, but true to fan favourites Edd’s bowtie is green, Matt’s is purple, and Tom’s is navy blue. It’s one of the small things they can do to build a sort of brand for themselves, adhering to their token hoodie colour scheme, and it’s hardly a difficult thing to do. 

Before Tom can speak Matt steps forward to fiddle with his bowtie, probably straightening it. “You do realize that this monkey suit is not staying on my body for long,” Tom tells him, quirking an eyebrow.

Matt grins, wiping imaginary dust from the shoulders of his suit jacket. “At least keep your tie on for the red carpet photos. It’s our first one, so we should make a good impression.”

Tom gives him a tired look but when Matt’s grin only gets wider he relents with a little smile of his own. “Alright,” he sighs, “fine. I will act like a real boy.”

The limo ride—a _limousine_ , god damn; Tom can remember a time when all he had were the clothes on his back and a bike to his name—through New York City to the venue is a relatively short one, filled with idle conversation mostly driven by Edd and Matt. Tom can’t decide what he’s more thankful for: friends like his, or complimentary limousine champagne.

He pours three flutes and hands them each one, lifting his glass and clinking it to theirs. “We made it, guys,” Tom says, his disbelief evident.

“We made it,” Edd seconds with a laugh before tipping it back as Matt and Tom do the same.

They drink their champagne and once his glass runs dry Tom opts for drinking straight from the bottle. He doesn’t want to over-think anything tonight; he just wants to have a nice time and not make an ass out of himself. Due to a combination of nerves and habit, however, the bottle is nearly empty by the time their limo pulls up in the line of limos letting out their respective celebrities. 

At least his hands have stopped shaking.

Their conversation fades away as they get closer and closer to the carpet, anticipation settling in their bones and charging the air with excitement, and then it seems like no time at all until their door is being opened and Edd is stepping out into the ocean of flashing lights. 

Beside him Tom is next, and he hesitates long enough that Matt gives his back a little pat with his hand and murmurs, “It’s okay. You got this.”

After a second Tom nods, sucking in a preparatory breath before he gets out to stand beside Edd. The cameras are going crazy and the noise level is outlandish, and Tom knows he’s not imagining things when the cameras all seem to turn on him and the crowd's chatter spikes. He gives a cool smile, letting his public mask fall into place, but the whispering between the people behind the barriers is… audible. The term _black_ _eyes_ jumps out at him over and over as Matt joins them and they make their way down the carpet, and he feels a swift, compulsive urge to hunch his shoulders and stare at the ground. He resists it though, following Edd’s lead with his hands stuffed casually in his slacks pockets. 

Patryck had given them a rundown when they met for dinner: walk the carpet, stop to pose when the people in front of you stop, and _smile_. Tom knows the third one was directed at him, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He offers nothing more than his standard chilly smile, pausing to pose with Matt and Edd as they wander down the carpet towards Barclays Center. 

It’s particularly surreal to be beside artists like Ariana Grande and Post Malone, to be _nominated_ for the same things they’ve been nominated for, and Tom tries to let the truth of it sink in but he doubts it ever will. When the person behind them, _Billie goddamn Eilish_ , gives them a cheery smile and a polite wave Tom feels his insides squirm with a schoolboy giddiness that stirs his mood into a lighter one. 

His next smile is more genuine when they pause for photos, his arms casually slung around Matt and Edd, but when they go to move forward one of the interviewers steps into their path and it’s—fuck, it’s Giuliana Rancic from _E! News_ , how the hell is he going to do this?

Tom should’ve seen it coming but Giuliana goes right for him, the weirdest-looking and most mysterious one of the three, before any of them can react. Her dress glistens with every move she makes and her expression isn’t quite predatory but it’s close, and without a qualm Edd and Matt both smile and stand at Tom’s sides to smoothly take control of her focus.

“The talented, up-and-coming members of EDDZWRLD, right here in front of me,” Giuliana beams. The cameraman behind her has his lens pointed their way and Tom feels his neck growing warm and itchy with nervousness at the attention, the millions of potential viewers seeing him. 

Tom swallows anxiously while Giuliana has her mic extended toward them at a respectful distance and continues, “So tell me, guys: what do you think of the atmosphere here today? Are you feeling good about your chances with the Push Best New Artist Award? What about Song of the Summer?”

“We’re definitely optimistic,” Edd says amiably, maintaining eye contact with Rancic instead of looking at the camera in front of them. As he rambles on about their nominations Tom wishes he had half the charisma Edd has but it’s past the point of simply wishing for it. He’s well aware of his people skills, or lack thereof, but every now and then he says something funny or dry enough to garner some positive attention.

Matt leans forward once Edd loses some steam, letting go of Tom’s back where his arm had been resting, and Tom subconsciously takes a mini-step backwards to let Matt take up more space. “It’s incredible here,” Matt enthuses, and as if he can’t help himself his head turns left and right to take in all of the surrounding glitz and glamour. “The vibes are great, and we’ve worked really hard on our latest album so even if we don’t get an award I’m still proud of us.”

Giuliana nods, her smile as present as ever. Her eyes shift to Tom, laughably half-hidden behind Edd and Matt despite being a full-grown 5’11” man, and Tom recognizes the same look of every interviewer who’s come across his… more unusual characteristics: animalistic greed for the truths of his life. “What about you—Tom, is it? Do you have anything to add?”

The heat of his skin is translating to stickiness under his stifling suit but Tom refrains from tugging at his collar. _Too blatantly nervous,_ he warns himself. _She’ll pounce if I show hesitation._ He waits a breath, more for steadying himself and constructing an answer than to add anticipation, and then as Edd and Matt shift to let him move forward he tugs his mouth up into a modest grin. “It’s quite the shindig.”

“Now there’s an understatement,” Giuliana laughs with delight. Her expression slides into something less affable and more probing and she pushes on with a toothy smile, “Tom, you know you have your fans—and quite frankly a celeb or two—just dying to know more about you.”

Tom’s face must show something despite his attempt to remain stone-faced, and she must see Edd and Matt revving up their excuses for a speedy departure because Giuliana is hasty to continue, “Those eyes of yours—absolutely stunning, of course, but also… so unusual. I’ve never seen anything like it before! Can you tell us the cause of their dark colour?”

For a lengthy moment Tom flounders for a reply, his cheeks heating further and no doubt reddening his face, but then his brain halts every process at once because, through all the perfumes and colognes and other urban smells in the crowd around them, he smells the scent of a body he hasn’t met in years. It rushes along his skin like a current as he inhales impulsively, swathing his senses with the smell he’s missed more dearly than any other, and then his whole body jumps when a long-fingered hand comes to rest on his shoulder. 

Without a word, without a doubt Tom knows who’s behind him. If he had been unsure, though, one look at Matt or Edd’s hurt, shocked expressions would’ve cinched it.

He braces for it in the milliseconds he has, but he still flinches slightly when Tord’s accented voice comes clear as day from behind his left shoulder, “It’s a pigmentation thing.”

At his abrupt appearance Giuliana seems at a loss for words, but she recovers quickly and the wattage of her smile amps up to an eleven. “Tord Lawson, what an entrance!” she giggles. “A pigmentation thing, you say? Is it genetic?”

 _My face must be a sight,_ Tom thinks to himself vaguely, hollowly, because the smell of Tord, the heat of him so close are both enough to send his mind sprawling. Past the tense emotion trembling under his ribs Tom can feel that hand on his shoulder even through his suit jacket, immobile but _there_ , and the idle chatter between Giuliana and his ex-friend filters through the layers of his internal withdrawal until it’s nothing but sound.

He hears Edd’s voice while he’s trying to blink away the fuzz edging his vision, and then the hand on him is gone and it’s different but familiar hands coaxing him away and into the building.

When Tom can finally blink the blurriness away he lifts his head, frowning until he spots Edd to his immediate right and Matt at his left hand. He’s seated in a luxurious bathroom on a chaise against one wall, his body is sticky with cold sweat, and yet again he doesn’t remember the journey there. “Please tell me I didn’t faint.”

Matt smiles a little, but there’s no amusement there. “You didn’t. We got you away from him before you could.”

Tom studies his face at length, and then Edd’s on his other side. They’re both… pissed. _Really_ pissed. He doesn’t have to wonder why, when Tord showed up so suddenly, so sneakily and just acted like nothing was wrong. Thankfully Tom can’t smell him anymore over the floral, clean scent of the bathroom but he can still feel the aching weight of his hand. It’s ghostly—a mere memory of a touch that he wants to claw off his skin until he bleeds, but any pain would be preferable to the lingering echo of… him. 

He feels like he did the day Tord left. He feels like the world has been swept from beneath him and he’s now left to coast through space without a hope to Hell of making it back again. He feels ripped open and torn apart and exhausted. He’s a well-used and wrung out dish rag that’s been given the last employ of its life and is due for the trash bin. He feels world-weary for his twenty-eight years, wearier than anyone has any right to feel as he stares at his hands and watches them tremour. 

The last thing he wants to do is drag out this topic, but he has to know. “What did he say?” 

Edd scuffs his dress shoes against the expensive-looking marble flooring, leaving a dark streak on the tile as he composes himself. It takes a little bit, but then he’s sighing and finally looking Tom in the face. “He talked about your eyes. She asked him about the four of us and when he hesitated I cut them both off and we got you out.”

“Brilliant,” Tom grunts, rubbing his palms over his face. He knows he’ll be the gossip for the next week at least, the man who nearly fainted at the appearance of his old bandmate on the red carpet, but there’s not much he can do about it now. 

_So much for not making an ass out of myself._ He looks up again, elbows propped on his knees, and gives his best friends a wry smile. “I’m making a habit out of this, huh?”

Edd’s lips twist into a sort-of-smile, but when he speaks there’s little warmth in his tone. “It won’t happen again.”

He sounds certain, he even looks it, but Tom isn’t so sure. He nods though, getting to his feet on wobbly but secure legs and digging the flask from his pocket to take a long gulp. When he pockets the flask again he tucks his emotions away along with it, shielding himself with the harshest side of his personality. It’s not exactly polite to equip a raging bitch face, but it’ll let him survive the night at least.

“Let’s get this shitshow over with, then,” he grunts past the burn of his throat, and when Matt leads the way out of the bathroom he and Edd follow.


	2. Once More With Feeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love every last one of you who reads, comments or leaves kudos for this fic ; v; thank u all so much

In the end, Tom doesn’t really have to worry much about his own behaviour for the VMAs. 

“What _exactly_ was the goal last night?” Their manager and friend Patryck stares down at the lot of them, tucked onto a small couch in Edd’s hotel room, shoulder-to-shoulder like scolded children in the principal’s office. The premise certainly fits; Tom’s never felt more contrite in his life, but he also can’t bring himself to regret letting Matt and Edd, er… speak their minds. 

“Pat, listen, it—” Matt begins, but Patryck levels such a dull glare at him that his mouth clacks shut again. 

“Are you trying to kill me?” he demands, massaging his temples like an older, more burdened man. Then again, Tom hasn’t got much of a personal gauge for how taxing he and his friends are, professionally speaking. Maybe they were out of line, unrealistic about what they could get away with.

Tom’s lips flatten into a thin line. _Or maybe it was exactly what he deserved._

“You do realize that this was the _VMAs,_ right?” Patryck sighs angrily. He paces the short length in front of the couch, back and forth as he continues to rub at what’s likely a monstrous headache. “The goddamn VMAs, and you just—what, you just decided that Tord needed to be chewed out in front of half the famous population? In front of fifty thousand fucking cameras? He just _needed_ to have a drink thrown in his face? He just _needed_ to get kicked in the fucking knee? What are you, _twelve_?”

“He’s lucky I didn’t gouge his bloody eyes out,” Edd mutters waspishly. 

Tom bites the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling when Patryck’s expression dips further into fury. Their manager opens his mouth to speak but Edd beats him to it. “No, Pat, I don’t think you get it,” he spits, firmer than before, and as he gets to his feet his face hardens. “Yeah, we were shitheads. Yeah, we could’ve picked a better time and place. I still don’t regret it.” 

Something melancholy bleeds into his features as he looks down at the carpet. “You weren’t our manager until after he was gone, after we had… healed, for the most part.” Edd’s eyes lift and, miraculously, Tom watches the anger on Patryck’s face morph into resigned acceptance, begrudged understanding. “He broke us apart when he left. None of us…”

Edd trails off but doesn’t continue and his posture slouches as he drops back down onto the couch, all defiance gone. Tom swallows the lump in his throat, fingers fiddling with a loose thread on his hoodie sleeve, and he remembers the night before with a fresh sense of the same soul-deep ache that hasn’t left him for years.

They didn’t win either nomination they had earned, which Tom knew was alright with them, but at the end of the night when Tord’s name was called for Song of the Year… something bursted inside his chest. It felt ugly and incredible all at once; he was bitter for the success that Tord had been too prideful to not share with his friends, but he also felt pleased for Tord’s accomplishments, softened by his visible happiness as he accepted the award. Tord was never lazy, not like him, and Tom knows he would’ve worked hard whether he was in the band or not.

He watched Tord walk up to the stage, watched his short and thankful acceptance speech with stomach butterflies that felt like boulders in a rock tumbler. When Tord was finished and smiling through all of the applause, he looked out into the crowd with eyes that shone and his gaze found Tom unerringly. The connection, after avoiding it for years, after avoiding it the entire night, threw Tom’s equilibrium into chaos. His breath blew past dry lips and immediately he was sucking in another one to quell the pain, to blunt the raw emotion of Tord’s stare. It was a useless endeavour, but he tried all the same. 

As much as Tord deserved it, as entertaining as it was to see Edd and Matt fly off the handle when Tord tried to approach them after they cold-shouldered him all through the show… Tom knows he won’t forget the poignant shame, the _regret_ he saw burning in Tord’s hazel-green eyes.

Tom blinks the memory away, glancing over at his bandmates. Matt looks miserable as he pats Edd’s shoulder, and whatever’s left of Patryck’s ire fades until he’s running a hand through his hair with a brief huff of a laugh. 

“Alright,” he says, cracking a smile. “I know a wall when I see one, but for the love of God, just have some composure from now on. You don’t have to be nice but _please_ don’t maim or shout at him again. One blowup is forgivable in the eyes of the world—comes with being famous—but one is all we can afford.” 

As terms go, those are more than agreeable but Tom still feels deeply unsettled at the notion of seeing Tord again. Matt and Edd had been there last night to buffer his presence and, for lack of a better word, defend Tom from Tord’s attempts at talking but the fact remains: there would be no more avoidance, if Tord kept this up. For whatever reason Tord tried to engage them—whether he was trying to apologize or just strike up a conversation, Tom couldn’t say—but his friends couldn’t protect him forever. Tom shouldn’t rely on them so heavily in the first place. They had their own baggage with Tord; he didn’t need to add his own into the mix.

“Well, if we’re lucky we won’t see him again and it’ll be fine,” Matt says beside him, perking with his inexhaustible optimism.

Tom snorts, rising from the couch, and gives Matt’s ginger hair a little pat on his way to the door. “I wouldn’t hold my breath, buddy,” he says dryly, and leaves to finish packing. 

* * *

New York City has been in the rearview mirror for just over an hour by the time Tom finally lets himself relax. Slowly his nerves, long since frayed into oblivion, start to reform with every new mile that stands between him and Tord. The backlash from their drama at the Awards show was surprisingly minimal—no doubt due to Patryck’s keen sense of media bullshit mitigation—but Tom can still feel the effects of that night every time he closes his eyes so the farther they go, the better.

Getting any sleep has been… difficult, as a result, and he knows that he’s worrying Matt and Edd the more he drinks but the alternative is lying awake thinking extensively about Tord and that just isn’t an option.

It’s late afternoon and they’re westbound heading back through Pittsburgh when Patryck gets a call. Normally that’s nothing to write home about since he’s the manager of a well-known band, but this one makes Tom lift his head from writing a new song with Edd and Matt at the dining table when his voice gains a distinctly sweet tone. 

_Must be Paul,_ Tom thinks, not without some friendly affection for Patryck’s noticeable difference when he’s speaking with his husband. Paul owns the record label they’re signed under, Red Army Records, and is consequently also Patryck’s boss. For a while Tom thought it was unusual, potentially disastrous for them to work together while being married, but both Paul and Patryck have been nothing but amiable and beneficial.

“—great to hear your voice,” Patryck says from the front seat. He laughs after a short pause and continues, “No, no, nothing like that. It’s just been a busy few days, that’s all.”

There’s a longer pause, and Patryck’s voice loses some of its levity when he speaks again. “Oh? What about?” 

Movement catches Tom’s attention and he glances over to see that Edd and Matt have abandoned the song and are looking Patryck’s way too. Edd meets his eye and a wordless concern travels between them, but they’re quiet as they eavesdrop on their manager.

“Oh…” The lone word fades into silence, holding so much uncertainty and unease that now Tom shares a look with both Matt and Edd. “No, Paul, I don’t think—I know it’s a tense situation but the guys—There just isn’t any wiggle room on this, I’m serious.” 

There’s a brief pause and then Patryck’s voice kicks in again with enough ferocity to raise Tom’s brow. “I would _suggest_ that you really consider what you’re asking, what it would cost them. What if it doesn’t work? What if he fucks up again? I’m not compromising them just because Tord doesn’t know how to say sorry like a normal person.”

Tom’s stomach squeezes into a grape-sized point of pure anxiety—pure _fear_ —and his gaze falls to the faux-wood grain design of the tabletop, tan hands clenching on its surface with enough force to completely whiten his skin. He’s silent as Patryck listens to whatever Paul’s saying, monitoring his own breathing with a vague sense of doom lingering over him like a raincloud waiting to dump its miserable cargo. What is it that Paul expects them to do?

When Matt extends a hand to nudge his forearm Tom glances up, sees Matt’s compassionate expression and cracks a ghost of a smile. Those pale fingers tap gently against his fist, a reminder, and slowly Tom lets his muscles loosen until his hands are lax on the table once more.

“I don’t give a shit what he said,” Patryck sighs, and Tom’s focus is snagged again. “Paul… No, I’m _not_ trying to decide for them, but I’m telling you this is a bad idea… Because I know them! Because they trust me.” He sighs again, a rough sound from the throat. “Okay. Okay, I’ll ask. I love you too. Bye.” 

Tom and his bandmates are quiet as Patryck gets to his feet and walks the short distance from the front seat to them. Neither Tom nor his bandmates make any effort to pretend they weren’t listening, but the gravity of the situation sinks in when Patryck pulls the ottoman over to sit at the edge of the table and meet the eyes of all three musicians.

The quiet between them mixes with the sound of the bus’ tires on the highway and the soft playing of the radio as Jon, their driver, takes them toward their next gig in Tulsa. The moment feels oppressive in its normalcy, with the absolute possibility for chaos thrumming under the skin of their brand new issue, and Tom’s shoulders hunch up to his ears in a compulsive but defensive move as it stretches on and on.

Edd snaps first. “Christ, Pat, don’t leave us sitting here all day. What’s going on?”

Patryck pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes clenched shut, and then lets out a slow breath as he looks up. “Paul says that… Paul says Tord wants to work with you guys on a song—an album, if you’re willing. He’s, and I quote, “eager to make amends”.”

 _Eager,_ Tom thinks to himself hysterically, his gaze glued to the dark leather band twined around his right wrist. It’s years old and worn, soft to the touch. A comfort, if a small one. _Where was that eagerness when he left us behind?_

“It’s kind of late for that,” Matt says irritably to Tom’s left. “He’s had like three years to _make amends_ , but he waits until we’re famous like him? So we don’t tarnish his shiny reputation?”

“His timing has always been shit,” Edd grumbles. “Just what does he think is going to happen? We’re going to hold hands and sing fucking Kumbaya?” He sighs, running a hand through his mess of brown hair. “Is this for positive publicity or something? Show the world that he’s a good guy, that he’ll own up to his mistakes. Look how _caring_ he is.”

A solid barb lodges in Tom’s chest, pinning his breath and making it nigh impossible to think beyond the pain, but the memory he fears still comes to his mind’s eye; that look of unending remorse at the VMAs that Tord gave him across a sea of wealthy celebrities. Tom doesn’t doubt that it’s real, but to what end would Tord want to mend bridges? Three years is… too long, far too long for someone to ponder some kind of retribution. Why not sooner? Why leave at all? Wasn’t their collective sound worth preserving? Or was it only valuable to Tord years later now that they made it on their own? Did they have to prove something to him before he could deem them worthy of him again?

“Breathe, Tom,” Edd says quietly, soothingly, and Tom jumps violently when there’s a light touch to his hand. His breath comes in one tiny gasp and he retracts his hands from the tabletop instinctively, blinking to banish the wetness from his eyes. 

“I knew this was too much,” Patryck says wearily. He doesn’t sound disappointed, not even slightly, but Tom still hears a challenge in the words and something about that… Something about that makes the pain ease off, just a little. 

It’s ridiculous of him, complete and utter foolishness to entertain the idea of reinstating Tord’s position in their lives after what he put them through just because he wants the validation of knowing he _could._ Tord doesn’t deserve a second chance, and that’s exactly what Tom’s been telling himself since he left, since he started believing Tord would come back to them someday. The belief didn’t last longer than the first year but the notion stuck: _Tord doesn’t deserve the chance to fix this._

Tom has no ground to stand on when it comes to defending himself against Tord; that’s been proven tenfold in the past week. Just the mention of him sends Tom into a tailspin, makes him shake and irregulates his breathing. He almost fainted when Tord snuck up on him on the red carpet, and after accepting his award Tord gave him such a fervid stare that it took everything Tom had not to hyperventilate.

He’s never said the words out loud, why he reacts so strongly or why he was struck the hardest when Tord left them, but he knows them. He _still_ feels them years later, and if he had to say his farewells all over again, good or bad blood between them, it could damage him beyond repair. 

Regardless of the danger, a hopefulness swells in him as he remembers the ache in those eyes, the true desire for restitution as Tord sought him out in an enormous crowd. Tom holds no illusions about what he is to Tord—he meant little then and he means little now—but that doesn’t mean Tord doesn’t feel the need to recompense for past behaviour. 

“No.”

He doesn’t realize he’s spoken until everyone is looking at him. Patryck’s eyebrows are arched high in disbelief, phone already in hand to relay the negative answer, and Edd and Matt look like they’ve been slapped.

“Wh-what?” Edd blurts.

“I… I said no,” Tom reiterates, slow but sure—more sure than he’s felt in days. “He wants to try fixing things, heal old wounds. Let him.” He meets Matt’s eyes, then Edd’s. “If things go well then we’ve repaired what he broke. If not…” Tom breathes in, and the barb’s poke is lessened further as his conviction settles into his mind. They could do this. They _can_ survive this, even if it’s a worst case scenario. “If not, we get closure, and wash our hands of him.”

Edd and Matt share a lengthy look, and when they look at Tom again their expressions have the same determined tinge. To Patryck, Edd says firmly, “Our tour ends Friday, in Albuquerque. Tell them… Next week, Los Angeles. Have a soundbooth ready.”

Patryck blinks, but seconds later his lips pull into a smirk and he stands, already texting. “You got it.” He lets loose a single _hah_ of disbelief as he studies them, and before he turns to head back to his seat he adds to Tom with evident pride, “Atta boy.”

He leaves them then, and Edd leans over to slug Tom in the shoulder with ecstatic approval written in his features. His and Matt’s grins share some of Tom’s misgivings about Tord’s true thoughts and intentions but, for the first time in a long, long time, Tom thinks of Tord and feels more than just pain.


	3. And Therein Lies the Darkest Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is later than i wanted it to be but, _c'est la vie_ in 2020

Arizona’s craggy desert landscape whisks by as they leave Albuquerque behind them, softened by the yellowed summer moon and the glinting stars above. Their last show ended a few hours ago, a riotously fun performance that Tom hopes he remembers whenever he sobers up, and with their small summer tour officially complete all three band members opted for gaining what ground they could toward California instead of booking into a hotel for the night. Their driver Jon, angel that he is, slept during the day while they were enjoying the city beforehand so he’s assured them that he can take them all the way to LA by late morning, and as Tom checks his phone for the time—3:18 AM—he wonders just how long he has left to really prepare himself for what he’s agreed to do. 

The bus is quiet, the only sounds being that of the sports radio station Jon is listening to on low volume and the _tk-tk-tk_ of Tom’s pen against the table while he halfheartedly scrawls lyrics. Patryck, Matt and Edd are all asleep in the bunks and he would’ve crawled into one himself if he thought he’d get any sleep tonight, but he knows better. The only way he’d sleep tonight is if someone knocked him out, which isn’t necessarily off the table, but he sincerely doubts that Matt or Edd would be willing. Still, the thought of one of his friends trying to punch him out, knowing Matt’s penchant for avoiding conflict and Edd’s general lackadaisy toward violence, puts a smile on his face. 

The sun is starting to consider rising over the horizon behind them and Tom is tinkering with the bridge for a new song when his phone buzzes noisily on the table. Blindly he grabs it with his right hand, finishing his current line with the other and then glancing at the screen. His lips curl into a frown at the sight of a text from an unknown number and he swipes his phone’s lock screen away to tap the notification, but when it opens his body runs cold in one flush of dread.

_Hey tomcat._

There’s only one person on the planet who’s ever called him that, and that fact wasn’t privy to anyone else but them. The words taunt him and in the wake of his chill there’s a fast-moving heat, a pleased embarrassment sending tingles through him in waves of satisfaction. It’s misplaced; Tom knows that the feeling behind the nickname is platonic but his mind refuses to accept the truth, and his body even less so. It’s the only thing he’s held onto in the time that they’ve been apart, and it’s probably one of the first things he should’ve let go.

But he didn’t, and now it’s staring him in the face with enough history between past and present to fill a football stadium. 

_hi Tord._

It takes several minutes for him to hit ‘Send’ once he’s typed it out and set his phone down, but eventually he does and then it’s official—there’s no avoiding it anymore. There’s no more avoiding _him._

His stomach is in knots, twirling like a carnival ride as he chews his bottom lip and fiddles with his pen. Although his eyes are on the journal in front of him, his mind is in another place entirely. What had he been thinking? Tord is bad news, straight up _bad news_ for Tom in every way he can think of but he still stopped his bandmates from severing their last tie to him. He still made that call to give Tord another chance and let him into their lives again, and at the time it felt right. His conviction hasn’t wavered in terms of giving Tord a second chance but his doubts have risen into a tsunami, his certainty about his own strength waning by the second, and now he’s not sure if he can do what he said he could.

He hangs his head over the table, temples cradled in his clammy palms. It’s way too late to take it back, especially now that Paul has their word for some kind of collaboration. He can assume that Paul or Patryck gave his number to Tord so they could discuss this new project of theirs, but… Even back then, Tom and Tord weren’t very close. Why would Tord text him and not the others?

A feeble thread of hope ignites inside him, which it has no business doing considering Tord is probably only texting him because Edd and Matt are asleep and unresponsive. But it won’t be fettered or smothered, and the longer it stays the more it thrives, dusting off his ill-used heart and revitalizing it with the memory of the last time he felt Tord’s touch, at the VMAs nearly a week ago. 

It was a jarring contact, brought on at the height of a fit of anxiety. It was indirect, not on his skin but through the shoulder of his suit jacket. It was brief, due to Matt and Edd getting him away before he fainted. 

It was bliss.

Tom’s right hand slides up his opposing arm and slowly, delicately cups over the spot where Tord’s had rested. His chest fizzles with a soft, yearning ache and he feels silly, pathetic for enabling his urge to cherish the touch, but he still leaves it there for a handful of moments before he forces himself to remove it again and refocus on his song.

The notion lasts only minutes, because as soon as his phone goes off with another text he’s abandoning the lyrics and scrambling to pick it up. 

_Something tells me you slept about as much as I did._

Tom’s lips crook into a little smile and with warm fondness he remembers when Tord was still in the band, all the nights they spent poring over song lyrics and melodic cadences while Edd and Matt slept. They may not have been terribly close back then, but Tom can easily say that they had a lot more in common than either one of them was willing to admit. Tord’s insomnia was chronic, unpredictable, and he had medication for making him sleep but it always made him feel terrible. Tom’s inability to sleep stemmed more from his frequent tendency to drink, which ought to have made him sleep but he’d been dependent on alcohol long enough that many of its routine effects were all but nonexistent. As a result, more often than not they’d be awake together from sunset to sunrise, writing songs or playing card games.

 _probably._ That one word seems dull and inadequate after he sends it so Tom is quick to add, _what’s keeping you up?_

_Nerves,_ is the reply. _I have these old friends that I really fucked over a long time ago, but they agreed to let me make it up to them._

Tom’s gut rockets up into his suddenly dry throat, hands shaking as his thumbs hover over the screen. _awfully charitable of them._

_I thought so too._

He doesn’t know what to say, how to even begin to respond to such a dangerous personal topic, so Tom lets the words sit there unanswered. He stares and stares, reading over their short conversation several times and trying to pick apart what Tord wants from the simple words, what he’s aiming for with this conversation.

Tom is familiar with the blunt truth of things. He’s had to be realistic all his life, with professional and private matters, because he learned early on that holding onto fairytales and dreams is what gets people hurt. He knows there’s no light at the end of this tunnel with Tord—he _knows_ that, with every little part of him—but the baseless hope still remains, rooted within him.

Tom jolts from his worry when his phone vibrates in his hand again, and he has to take a deep breath before he’s able to open the notification.

_I don’t have the right words to say everything that needs saying, but I’m going to fix this Tom._

His next exhale is rough, and in a novel moment Tom wishes he didn’t have to be a realist. He wishes, prays for the day when he can be frivolous with himself and his affections without the persistent fear of rejection or loss. But there is nothing more certain in him than the knowledge that today isn’t that day.

_don’t make promises you can’t keep._

Tord’s reply is almost instantaneous. _I promise I will fix this._

Tom shuts his eyes and sets his phone face-down on the table without a reply. Tord might be able to get back what he lost with Edd and Matt, and maybe even the vague friendship that he had with Tom, but Tom’s idyllic fool’s hope of the two of them together is a false one. The sooner he accepts that, the better.

His phone goes off a few more times after that but he doesn’t look at it again, which takes way more willpower than Tom is comfortable with. It lies on the table, taunting him with all of his daydreams that he craves to be true, and by the time Edd is waking up an hour later Tom has shut it off and stuffed it into the bottom of his bag.

Edd gives him a strange look when he joins him at the dining table, looking like he wants to say something badly, but there must be something in Tom’s expression that stops him because the only thing he says is a muted, “G’morning.”

Tom mutters a return greeting, and with Edd at his side and thoughts of Tord throbbing through his skull they watch the morning desert go by.

* * *

The weekend finishes too quickly for Tom’s liking. 

He spent it as one might assume a popular musician spends their time off—lounging around his barely furnished apartment and day drinking while watching reruns of Jerry Springer and Maury—but when Edd texts him early Monday morning with a time and place for their first session with Tord his body refuses to move from the couch with any urgency. The last time he slept was the day before and he feels worn, tired to his bones as he stares up at the exposed beams and ductwork of his loft’s ceiling. Doubt has been worming its way through his insides since then, curling his stomach and ruining his appetite to boot. 

_Maybe if I lie here long enough I’ll just calcify,_ Tom muses to himself, _and I won’t have to go to the session._ Then they can sell him to the Guggenheim as a work of modern art. _The Man Who Does Nothing by Thomas Skaal, 2020._ The thought is amusing, at least, and it puts a little smile on his face before the reminder of the day ahead of him wipes it off again.

With a low groan Tom rolls himself off the couch and into the bathroom for a shower, where he scrubs away the weekend’s worth of grime with an excess of attention to prevent his mind from processing what he’s about to go through. A day—no, _several_ days spent with Tord to write at least one song, and that’s not even including refining it with practice and then recording it for publication. He hasn’t played with Tord in years, hasn’t sang with him or spent time with him, professionally or otherwise, and the idea of it is terrifying. At the very least he knows Edd and Matt will be there, but even with a double buffer like that he knows he’s going to make a fool out of himself. Thankfully, though, by the time he turns the tap off again the hot water has done the trick and he’s feeling a little more human.

He’s meticulously running a comb through his damp but characteristically difficult hair, his face shaved and his teeth brushed, when there’s a knock on the front door. Tom frowns, sighing at Edd’s punctuality as he leaves the bathroom and checks the clock over the kitchen sink—9:30, on the dot—on his way to the door.

Tom has a firm grip on the towel around his waist, and when he reaches the door he wrenches it open with complaints already falling from his lips. “Damn it, Edd, how many times do I ha—”

The words stick to his tongue at the sight of not Edd, but Tord on his threshold. His grip on the doorknob tenses until it hurts, his eyes frantic and his heart rate pounding in his throat like a sledgehammer while he takes all of the details in. He’s wearing jeans and a burgundy V-neck shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, sporting a tentative smile that reaches his eyes and crinkles them at the corners. His hairstyle is the same as ever, strange but soft-looking and effectively appealing on him, and in a fit of lunacy Tom wants to run his hands through it. His body looks a little more defined, his forearms more toned than the last time Tom saw him. He looks good. Really fucking good.

Tord’s gorgeous greenish eyes are doing some looking of their own, lingering at length on Tom’s chest and only then does Tom realize he’s standing and staring like a dumbass in the doorway. His body runs hot as he flushes, and it takes a long moment for a sentence to organize in his mind.

“I…” Tom swallows roughly, refraining from hunching his shoulders, but he can’t help it when his gaze drops to the floor and stays there. It’s the safest place for him to look, if he’s going to speak like a normal person. “You’re… not Edd.”

“Matt and Edd are downstairs,” Tord says quietly, and the hole inside Tom’s chest aches at the sound of it. With something akin to desperation he hopes it doesn’t show on his face. “We’re carpooling. He lent me his keys and told me which apartment was yours.”

Tom is never giving Edd a spare key for his building ever again. “Okay,” Tom croaks after a potent, charged silence. Exerting some significant effort, he lets go of the doorknob and steps aside to invite Tord inside with an awkward gesture. “I’m almost done, just… have to get dressed. You can wait in here if—if you want.” 

Tord nods and steps in, and Tom shuts the door behind him before shuffling toward his room and muttering, “I’ll be right back.” He doesn’t wait for a response, fleeing to the safety of his bedroom and shutting the door with a silent but gargantuan exhale. He takes a long span of moments to breathe and soothe himself, and with his hands shaking he grabs some clean clothing from his dressers and hastily pulls them on. 

His mind whirrs with activity, remembering everything about Tord’s appearance over and over again. It’s unfair of him, showing up like this, but Tom knows without a second thought that it was intentional. What he doesn’t know is _why_. Why would Tord want to come get him? Coupled with the fact that he texted only Tom last week—as well as sporadically throughout the weekend—it hints at a kind of favouritism that Tom knows is impossible. Tord must be trying to butter him up; maybe he perceives Tom as the one least likely to adapt well to Tord’s presence. He’s not wrong but at the same time, with a heavy heart, Tom knows it’s never going to be more than that.

He wants to hide in his bedroom forever, skirt around the issue of Tord’s re-emergence in his life until it becomes easier to process and deal with, but he knows that he can’t and, more importantly, he knows that the time for skirting or hiding is long, long gone.

When he exits his bedroom his mind is a little less chaotic, his thoughts more linear. Tord, lingering near the big west-facing windows, looks over at him while observing the view and smiles when their eyes meet. Right on cue Tom’s gut seizes with an inexplicable giddiness and his breath stutters out alongside a return smile that feels just a shade too awkward.

“Ready to go?” Tord asks, slowly making his way toward the front door—toward Tom.

Tom swipes his phone off the coffee table and then grabs his keys and wallet from the chipped dish on the kitchen counter. Before stuffing his phone in his pocket he checks its battery life, which is more than sufficient at over 70%, so he forgoes hunting down his charger. “Yeah,” he says then, and turns to see Tord has reached his side. 

Tord’s next smile looks… different than the ones before. “So it does work.” Tom’s confusion is obvious in his expression so he elaborates, “Your phone. I was just hoping it was broken or something. You didn’t reply to anything I sent you since Friday.”

“Oh,” Tom mumbles, and his face heats with embarrassment. He feels cornered by the slight pain he can see in Tord’s eyes, but Tord couldn’t possibly get hurt by Tom’s reluctance to contact him… right? “I… Don’t feel too bad, I barely text anyone back.”

“I see,” Tord says, letting out a small laugh. He leads the way to the front door, opening it and waiting just outside for Tom while he shuts and locks it. Before Tom can make for the elevator, though, Tord grabs hold of his wrist. “Wait a second, Tom.”

The touch is electricity, immediate and merciless, igniting his skin with sparks that won’t stop no matter how much Tom tells it to. His gut drops like a stone all the way to his heels, and even though Tord’s hold is gentle all Tom can feel is the sad, pathetic acceptance that he’s been slogging through since the day Tord said goodbye on a piece of fucking paper.

“We should go,” Tom blurts, feeling panic slime up his esophagus. He wrenches his wrist free and looks everywhere, anywhere but at Tord’s face. “We’ll be late.”

For someone as famous as Tord—and to a much lesser degree, himself and his bandmates—the lateness of their arrival won’t matter, especially since they’ve booked the booth for the entire day. Tom knows it and he knows that Tord knows it, but he doesn’t wait for Tord’s reply and goes directly for the elevator. The doors slide open once Tom fumbles for the button and he hurries inside, both relieved and dismayed that Tord follows him in with an expression that he can’t parse in the slightest. 

The ride to the lobby is silent but when Tom steps out into the morning sun and sees Edd and Matt waiting in Matt’s Camaro at the curb, something tight in his chest relaxes infinitesimally.

* * *

The ride to the studio is… tense, to say the least. When Tom and Tord hop into the backseat there’s a palpable energy between them, one that Tom is furiously ignoring, but he can’t ignore the looks that his bandmates give him. They’re too knowing, too keen and piercing, and after an initial glance Tom doesn’t pull his gaze away from the cityscape outside his window. Tord, Edd and Matt hold up some idle chatter without him, and the few times that Tord attempts to pull him into the conversation Tom answers with monosyllabic replies. After several attempts Tord gives up, but Tom can still feel those verdant eyes on him.

Upon their arrival at the studio, Matt parks in a spot midway from the front doors and turns to say to Tom, “We grabbed Daisy from the bus before coming to get you. She’s in the trunk.”

“Thanks, man.” Tom’s pleasant relief shows in his voice, and Matt offers a grin in return.

After Tom retrieves Daisy, his favoured acoustic, from the trunk Matt locks the car and the four of them make their way into the studio. This is the mutual studio that both EDDZWRLD and Tord are signed under, Red Army Records, and although they ought to’ve come into contact before now, even just by happenstance, they never have. He has a feeling that Patryck had been orchestrating their schedule so it would never coincide with Tord’s and not for the first time, Tom’s appreciation of their manager flares.

Edd leads the way and they head to the third floor and down the long hall to their assigned room. Within the large recording room there’s a drum kit set up at the back, as well as a keyboard, a few amps and several guitar cases leaning against one wall. By the stickers and scuffs covering them, Tom knows that they’re his electric guitar and Edd’s bass and he spares another grateful thought for Patryck’s preparedness.

The techie in the booth is an old friend, Mark, and they give him a friendly greeting before they make their way to their respective instruments. With the four of them there Tom is worried about the dynamic shifting into some form of chaos, that it’ll take them forever to get back into the swing of working with Tord, but as each of them begins warming up—Tom opts for Daisy instead of Susan, his electric—the ease of their collective playing is soothing, even if the noise itself is discordant. Tord’s playing, piano keys coaxed by his fingers, hits Tom with a notable difference than his bandmates’ and he aches, _aches_ with the need to keep hearing it. 

He puts conscious effort into focusing on his own instrument, and after some time Edd gives a little whistle to get everyone’s attention. He sets his bass down into a waiting guitar stand and moves to the corner of the room where there’s a little collapsible table and folding chairs tucked out of the way. He grabs the two chairs and table and sets them up in the excess space in the room, then gestures broadly to the setup with a distinct look at Tom and Tord.

“Now that we’re warmed up, I call our lyricists to the stage,” Edd says with a smile.

Tom gulps. He knows on some level that it’s supposed to be reassuring, but all he feels is anxiety when he moves to sit with Tord, who brought a small satchel with him into the building. He digs into his bag and pulls out two lined scribblers and some pens, setting them all on the table and then looking up at Tom with a smile. 

“How… do you want to go about this, then?” Tom murmurs.

“I was thinking we could each write a little something, some feeling or some concept that sticks with us,” Tord explains, “and then we’ll share it. Sound good?”

Rather than speak, Tom just nods and reaches for a pen and a scribbler to flip it open to the first page as Tord does the same. 

“We’ll jam while you guys do that,” Matt says, and Edd moves with his bass to sit on an amp and face Matt at the drum kit. Tord is already writing but he makes a small noise of affirmation, and Tom stares down at the empty page with a vague but unmistakable feeling of loneliness.

There’s a lot he could write about. He’s capable of writing any mood of song, any vibe, and he’s unsure where to apply his attention. What concepts has he come across that resonate with him? What kind of song is he aiming for? A tender love song? An angsty breakup song? A “get pumped” anthem? The possibilities don’t narrow at all the longer he thinks, so instead he searches his mind for the sorts of things he’s been experiencing lately. 

He doesn’t have to think very hard about what to write, and he’s scrawling before he really knows it. Pouring out the emotion he’s been bottling for the past nine days (the past three years), his hand flies across the paper, word after word of pain and loss. Regret. Despair. Hopelessness. Betrayal. Anger. Grief. Abandonment. He loses himself in the writing, tuning out the sound of Matt and Edd’s playing, and it all comes out, funneled through his hand to the page with a fervour that won’t be stopped.

It’s minutes later before Tord’s voice pulls him out of the trance he’s sunken into. “What’ve you got, Tom?”

His head snaps up, his left hand frozen mid-word. Tord’s expectant look and his extended hand offering his own scribbler both remind Tom harshly and all at once that this was meant to be _shared_. It wasn’t just venting, it was a cooperative project. His heart does a complicated maneuver in his chest before deflating into a heap of cold panic. He can’t share this—least of all to Tord.

Tom flattens his hand on the page, obscuring most of the words on it, and mutters with his eyes cast down, “I… It’s stupid. I’ll do it again.”

Tord gives a little chuckle, and when Tom’s eyes dart up helplessly Tord is smiling. “Are you kidding? You were writing like crazy. Let’s see it, come on.”

“N-no, I mean it, it’s not—” _Stupid, stupid, stupid, STUPID—_

“Nonsense,” Tord says, and in one quick move he’s yanked the scribbler from beneath Tom’s hand. Tom lunges for it but Tord leaps up from his chair and steps out of range, eyes scanning the page. Tom tries to swallow the sharp lump in his throat but it isn’t reduced or moved, no matter how hard he tries, and his grip on the back of his chair tightens until his knuckles burn with pain.

Matt and Edd have paused, attention likely drawn from Tord’s movement, and as Tom watches him read he can see the moment that Tord begins to realize what exactly it is that Tom was trying to convey with his lyrics. The horrified, wounded understanding is so plain on Tord’s face that Tom has to turn away. 

_Stupid. You’re a fucking idiot. What did you think would happen? What the fuck were you doing? What right do you have to accuse him of wrongfully leaving? Of taking the chance to get away from you?_ Tom’s heart races, his body thrumming with a dull energy that hastily brightens into what he recognizes as adrenaline, and without a shred of reconsideration he’s launching from his chair for the door.

“T-Tom?” Matt blurts, but he’s already wrenched the door open and making good time toward the hallway. He’s halfway down the hall when he hears footsteps; probably the guys following him, trying to stop him. He doesn’t slow down in the slightest. 

“ _Tom!_ ” The hoarse call comes from the hallway behind him, so full of pain that his feet falter—but don’t pause—as he turns the corner, and when Tord’s voice breaks so does Tom’s heart.


	4. Something Like A Love Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lord above this chapter is so heckin overdue but here you are !! i hope y’all like it :’)

He walks down the street alongside his hyper-focused mind, a mind that both bullies him and tries to dispel his less than kind thoughts. All that he can focus on are the bullet points: he fucked up, Tord looked abhorrently miserable, and he is a goddamn coward. Instead of talking about it, instead of _facing_ this, he chose to run away but no amount of distance can shield him from his own mind. With every new thought the two-sided argument seems to plague him more, threatening to smother all of what he is under its gargantuan weight.

Still, he walks—blindly, without direction, until he finds himself somewhere down West Pico Avenue with no conscious decision. It’s just past noon, according to his phone when he pulls it from his pocket. There are numerous missed calls from the guys, and even more unread texts. He tucks it away again.

For the first time in almost two hours, Tom looks up and absorbs his surroundings. Around him people are striding down the sidewalks, enjoying the bright sunshine and pleasant weather by shopping, or maybe going to have lunch with friends. He wishes he’d brought his sunglasses as the glaring light continues, but at least it’s overhead and not in his direct view. 

He makes his way farther west until he comes across a small park, full of shrieking kids in herds and their parents in conversational gaggles. His feet are throbbing from his wandering, his body uncomfortably warm even with him just in a t-shirt and jeans, so Tom crosses the street after a car zooms by, finds an unoccupied and shaded bench and, for a while, he people-watches. 

There’s a couple tossing a Frisbee back and forth with a bouncy golden retriever darting between them, and beyond them a young family is having a midday picnic on the grass in the shadow of a broad magnolia tree. Children race by with excitement, babbling nonsense that’s coherent only to them, in the way only kids can. He leans back against the bench, and with all the grace of a bull in a china shop his mind reopens the wound that he’s been perpetually trying to close since he fled the studio.

He feels the buzz of his phone against his thigh but isn’t remotely compelled to take it out, and his memory replays his cowardice over and over. Matt and Edd’s confusion, the growth of Tord’s stricken expression, his broken voice… Tom’s heart aches with shame and it shortens his breath until he takes a large inhale to steady himself, his eyes sightless and staring into middle distance.

What remains of his alcoholic binge from sometime in the early, early morning has long since faded, leaving his hands trembling in his lap and his stomach, empty of sustenance but full of abhorrence for his behaviour, churning at the impulse to find the nearest liquor store. As he sits debating whether to go home and indent his own stash or buy something and take the edge off immediately, a soccer ball flies past his ear with a startling _whshh_ that stamps his thoughts to a halt and makes him recoil.

“Sorry, sorry!” a hurried voice yells, and a moment later a young redheaded girl no older than fifteen follows the ball’s path as it lands and rolls to a stop some twenty feet away. Once it’s retrieved she comes back to him and begins, “I’m super sorry, my brother is an idiot, he—” 

Tom waits for the moment she spots it—once again begrudging his lack of sunglasses—and her sentence makes an abrupt halt as she studies his face more intently. Then her expression breaks into elated shock and she blurts, “Oh my god, you’re Tom Skaal!”

He blinks, surprised. Usually the first thing out of someone’s mouth is a blunt comment about his eyes, and the reminder of his newfound and still-budding fame is like a dart to his chest that brutally reinstates the reason why he’s hiding from his problems in the first place. “Uh… yeah.”

She beams at him, dropping the ball again to press both palms to her face and squeal. “Oh. My. _God!_ This is amazing, this is _totally_ amazing. I—I love EDDZWRLD, I listen to your stuff all the time. Like _Prismatic Horizon_ , and _Dryer Cycle_ and _Pale_ and _Orientation_ and—” She pauses to suck in a hasty breath and then she’s off again. “I have all of your albums, even your first one! My favourite is _K2 Minimalism_ —”

Tom’s eyebrows steadily climb up his forehead the more she talks, and at her next pause he interjects awkwardly, “Listen, thanks for… all that, but…”

The girl’s mouth closes, and when he doesn’t continue she takes a second scrutiny of his face. Her expression changes yet again; it becomes too sympathetic for Tom’s liking. “Oh, I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that. I’m chill, I swear.” She smiles a little. “My name’s Beth.”

The change in her tone is unexpected, and Tom blinks again. Out of habit he extends his hand and offers with a little quirk of his lips, “Tom.”

With obvious reverence she shakes his hand, grinning and letting out a small but high-pitched noise of excitement. After she lets go Beth hesitates before speaking, and then she murmurs, “Sorry if this is too, like, weird, Mr. Skaal, but… are you okay?”

Tom’s gut twists painfully, the reminder of his upset refreshed in his mind once more. “Why—” His voice comes out weak and he lowers his head to stare at the ground, then clears his throat before trying again, “Why do you ask?”

“I saw the VMAs on TV last weekend,” Beth replies in a hush. “When Tord Lawson came up to you on the red carpet, it looked… painful.” She takes a small, uncertain step forward and adds even quieter, “You seemed so sad.”

Tom’s jaw clenches as he fights back tears at the memory, in addition to the events of that morning, and furiously he scolds himself, _Don’t you fucking dare cry in front of a kid._ Head hung, he says out loud with little emotion, “It was nothing.”

Beth takes a seat beside him, tentative and wary, but when he doesn’t reproach her for it she relaxes infinitesimally. “I mean, like, with all due respect and everything… you still seem sad.”

He lets out a huff of almost-laughter and turns his head to look at her. In a flash, seeing her reminds him strongly of Tord’s orange-brown hair, so closely matched to her shade that it causes a rough tangle of warring sensations in his stomach. Upon spotting her compassionate expression—something he never thought he’d see on a teenager, let alone a fan of his—he bites back the dismissive answer he wants to give her and instead he says numbly, “Because I am, I guess.”

“Is it… because of him?” 

The small, peculiar but genuine sense of anonymous camaraderie he feels as he sits with her seeps into him and soothes his mounting anxiety over speaking about his issues. Slowly Tom nods, rubbing his hands together to prevent himself from fidgeting, and when he glances up at her Beth’s smile is melancholy. 

“Maybe this is just me…” Beth says after a moment, “but I’ve been a fan of your band _and_ Tord Lawson since the split, and whenever he does, like, interviews and stuff, when he talks about it… he’s kind of got that same look you have now.”

Tom’s chest seizes jerkily, and he squashes the hope that starts to climb up his ribcage. “It’s not the same.”

“Maybe,” she allows, “but I don’t think it’s all that different, either.”

Before Tom can reply to that a voice behind them calls out, “Beth!” Her head lifts and Tom turns to see a younger boy walking their way, with the same light auburn hair shade as Beth, the same bridge of freckles across his nose. 

“I’m coming, Eli, hang on,” she calls back, getting to her feet and picking the ball back up from its resting place a yard or so away. She tosses it to her brother and then faces Tom again. She grins at him, wide and happy, and Tom can’t help but smile too. 

“For what it’s worth, Mr. Skaal,” Beth says at length, “I think being able to forgive someone is a lot better than forgetting them.”

Tom snorts. “It’s a lot harder, too.”

Beth giggles, and she takes a few steps in the direction of her brother. “Yeah, but like, that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” 

Ruefully he smirks, rubbing his hand across his mouth and saying reluctantly, “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“Thought so.” Some of her teenage sassiness shows through with the words but her final smile is different than her first, not overflowing with excitement but content and, dare he think it, admiring. Then she sighs and says forlornly, “I guess I better go.” Beth turns and starts back toward where she came, and as she does she half-pivots to grin at him one more time and call with a wave, “Bye! It was great meeting you!”

“You too, kid,” Tom laughs to himself, and he peers after her as she jogs across the grass back to her waiting brother. For a moment he watches them kick the ball back and forth, watches Beth laugh delightedly after her brother catches her skillful pass, and when he turns back around to face forward his mind feels… clearer.

Tom has his phone in his hand before he really has time to think about it, and he’s dialing Edd before he can convince himself to stop.

Edd picks up before the first ring has finished. “Tom, oh my god, where the _fuck_ have you been? I’ve been calling and calling you—”

“I know,” Tom murmurs. He sighs, massaging his brow as he leans his elbows on his knees, and continues, “I’m sorry about that. And… I’m really sorry for bailing like I did.”

Edd is quiet for a handful of seconds and then he sighs too, albeit rougher than Tom’s. “Listen, it’s okay, man. Where are you? We’ll come get you.”

And just like that, the clarity of Tom’s mood shrivels into fear. “We?”

“Yeah, Matt and Tord and me. We’re at yours right now, in case you decided to come home.” Edd pauses, and then he says softly, “We aren’t mad, Tom. You hear me? None of us.”

_How do you know?_ Tom wants to ask, but he doesn’t. Edd wouldn’t lie, even to spare Tom the pain of Tord being upset with him. The fact that Tord still stayed with Matt and Edd to wait for him to come home, that he wanted to see him again even after reading what Tom wrote, is promising enough that Tom feels a grain of hope for the newest version of their friendship. So he relents, “Okay. I’m in a park on West Pico.” He gets to his feet and moves toward the street sign at the corner, relays the name of the cross street, and hangs up after Edd assures him they’ll be there soon.

Tom lingers at the corner rather than heading back to his bench, and with little else to do but wait, he sets aside his terrible unease and goes through his missed texts. Matt’s are multitudinous and more or less hectic, sprinkled with confusion and worry and begging that Tom call one of them, where Edd’s are lengthier and reassuring, insisting that whatever was wrong could be resolved. Neither is surprising, knowing how his best friends worry about him. 

When he opens Tord’s texts there are only three unread. 

_Tom, I’m so sorry._

_I never meant to do this to you._

_I understand if you can’t forgive me._

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, rereading them again and again, trying to accept what they mean with a heart rate that threatens to break him apart. In all of the five years he’s known Tord, Tom’s seen him pull some rude shit—mostly against assholes—but he can count on one hand how often he’s seen Tord apologize for such behaviour. But now, Tord is… being apologetic. Tord said sorry—to _him_. And it seems like he really does mean it. He wouldn’t be forced to apologize if he didn’t at least think he had done something hurtful, which he did, but to see the words on a screen, meant for him, typed by Tord… Tom’s having more than a little difficulty figuring this one out.

Someone walking by jostles him and he staggers, catching himself on the street sign, but he doesn’t even turn to give the person a scathing look. Tom’s eyes are glued to his phone, and although he knows it’ll only be minutes before the guys arrive he can’t help but want to establish something with Tord. Something _private,_ but with that also comes no small degree of fear. 

Three years is a long time of mental conditioning to undo and Tom’s not under any illusion that his coping mechanisms have been healthy or helpful, but having Tord back is. Having Tord around, even though Tom was an idiot and bolted after a stupid mistake, is… good for him. He feels _different_. Since Tord showed up at his place, since he texted Tom that morning on the bus, even since Tord came up beside him on the red carpet… The pain has superseded so many things that it’s been impossible to see anything beyond it, but Tord’s presence gives him something back that he’s been missing for a long time. He feels _new_ again, not the grouchy old man he’d been turning into, and he acknowledges it for what it is. 

Tom’s feelings truly haven’t changed, even after all this time apart to brood. It doesn’t mean that anything is actually different. Tord is a friend, just a friend, but he still deserves something in return for doing what’s right.

So Tom types. The first few tries are egregiously bad but eventually he stops trying to be distant, stops trying to protect himself, and instead he just… says what he means.

_i forgive you._

Tom has barely pocketed his phone when it buzzes and he fumbles it back out again, breaths shortened and uneven with anticipation.

_I’m so relieved,_ Tord’s reply says, followed by a gently smiling emoji. _Thanks. You’re a better man than I’d be in your shoes._

Tom’s face heats slightly, but he blames it on the broiling sun overhead. _have you already forgotten my angsty emo as fuck lyrics?_

_They’re beautiful._

His mild warmth rages into a full-blown blush that swarms his face, ears and neck until Tom feels like he’s about to die of embarrassment, but it’s nothing compared to the sense of pleasure he gets from the praise. _you’re just saying that to pacify me._

_Oh, so you think I’m lying? I still have the notebook you wrote it all in. I keep rereading them. I think we should make them into a song._

He’d really thought he couldn’t blush more, but Tom can feel his skin prickling with it from head to toe. He doesn’t know what to say, how to respond to something so flattering, so he stands there floundering for minutes until he hears the honk of a familiar horn and his head snaps up to see Matt’s car at the curb.

Tom is mortified at the thought of getting in the car without calming down first but there’s no reasonable excuse not to, so he gets in the backseat and sees that Tord is sharing it with him yet again. Tord has his phone clenched in his hand, just like Tom, and when Tord smiles at him he feels the flutter of something foolishly pleasant go through his body.

“So,” Edd says, turning around in the front passenger seat to glance at each of them. He studies Tom and then, apparently having seen something promising, he smiles. “How about some lunch, some drinks, and then we get back at it?”

Tom can feel their eyes on him but, sitting with his three favourite people in the world, he doesn’t have to think for very long about his answer. “Absolutely.”

* * *

The remainder of Monday afternoon is spent melodizing and adding to the lyrics Tom wrote, because Tord somehow convinces him that they have to finish it. Tom remembers arguing about it, he _knows_ he did, but when Tord put a hand on his shoulder and said, “This is the kind of emotion that the world should hear” Tom felt something bleak and dim inside him illuminate again, and his opposition crumbled.

For the sake of his sanity, though, Tom pretended not to see the sly grins that Matt and Edd exchanged with each other as he conceded with a muttered, “Okay.”

It’s almost five o’clock when they decide to break for a short rest and refuel, at Edd’s behest. Tord announces that he’s heading outside for a smoke and Matt disappears for a bathroom trip, which leaves Edd to call for some pizzas and Tom to take out Susan and get her tuned for when they reconvene.

While he plucks and hums along to his tuner, Tom’s mind dwells on the past few hours. It’s… unexpected, the level of comfort that he feels with all four of them being together again, playing and writing songs. They’ve fallen back into it easily enough, their old habits and banter coming forward as if no time at all has passed, and with the return of their friendship Tom feels like the pit in his chest has been filled in, just a little bit.

He’s still careful, of course. Whenever the topic—ever-changing since they all have so much to catch up on—strays to himself Tom gives succinct and vague answers, nothing too deep or revealing. It makes him ache, being unable to share everything that he wants to with Tord, but the alternative runs the risk of sharing something too revealing about his feelings and that would only create tension where there needn’t be any. But by the slightly shuttered looks that Tord keeps giving him, Tom knows he’s far from secretive in his attempt at keeping some distance between them.

“Hey,” comes Edd’s voice, and Tom looks up to see him entering the recording room from the hallway. “Pies are ordered.”

“Nice.” Tom sets Susan aside on a stand, fully tuned, and gets up to stretch but as he pulls his arms behind his back he pauses, noticing Edd’s expression. “What’s that look for?”

Edd pauses, deliberating, before sitting on an amp next to Tom. “You’re getting along with Tord pretty well.”

And what a loaded statement _that_ is. With some hesitation and some colour in his cheeks Tom shrugs uncomfortably and says, “Yeah, I guess.”

“Come on, man, I’m not teasing you,” Edd laughs. “I just wanted to touch base and make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m good,” Tom says, just a bit too flippant to be convincing. Edd’s face says it all so he perseveres, “I’m serious. We’re being friendly and all that shit.”

Now Edd grins. “Oh, I’d say Tord’s being a little more than friendly.”

Satisfaction jolts through him at the words, even as his mind provides examples why it isn’t true. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tom mutters.

“Don’t you?” Edd muses. When Tom doesn’t reply he sighs and continues, “Listen, I know that things are complicated but… Tord coming back, him being a part of our lives again, I don’t think it’s a bad idea like it was before.” Edd pauses, and then he adds in a softer tone, “Especially for you.”

“Why?” Tom asks him, quiet and hesitant. He looks up at Edd’s face, hoping to find any other kind of clue than the ones he’s being given, but he only sees compassion there. “Why _especially_ for me?”

“You’re not that stupid, Tom, come on.” Edd stands and crosses the room to where the scribbler of their lyrics sits on the small unfolded table, picking it up and waving it emphatically. “Tord treated this thing like the Holy Grail after you bolted off; he must’ve read it twenty times, at least. He paced grooves into the floorboards in your apartment while we waited for you to hopefully come home.” Edd sets the scribbler down again and comes to stand in front of Tom, whose stomach has devolved into an acidic pit of anxiety. “You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed how much attention he’s giving you. Work with me here, man. He’s not being subtle about this.”

“It’s wishful thinking,” Tom rebukes, but it comes out weak. “He just thinks he has to be nicer to me because he pities me, because I lo—” The word snags in his throat and he swallows it away, looking down at his hands. “This isn’t what you think it is. He’s just trying to make amends.”

“He could do that just fine without eyefucking you every time you’re not looking,” Edd scoffs, rolling his eyes. Tom’s eyes dart up to Edd’s face and when he sees no lie there, not a single one, his heartbeat staggers and then races.

“You’re just… seeing what you want to see,” Tom says timorously. “You want this for me, and I appreciate it, but it’s not real. It can’t be.”

The door to the hallway opens and Tom’s head whips around with panic, but it’s just Matt. The redhead pauses in the doorway, looking surprised at the two of them. “What? What’s going on?”

“Tom is refusing to see the truth of Tord’s absurd gayness for him,” Edd says before Tom can formulate a reply. 

Tom scowls at him halfheartedly. “Because it’s _not true._ There’s no way.”

Matt bursts out laughing, coming further into the room to clap a friendly hand onto Tom’s shoulder. “Are you kidding, dude? Tord looks like, seconds away from pulling you into a broom closet all the time. _All the time_.”

“That’s impossible,” Tom blurts, his face colouring ravenously. “That can’t be possible. He… Back then, he had to know how I felt, and he _left_. All that time and he never came back. How could he feel something now?”

“Uh-huh, because feelings never change, right?” Edd asks, both eyebrows arched high. “How hard is it to believe that he feels remorse now? Not so hard, right? How easy do you think it would be for him to care about you even more, after having years to dwell on what he did and rethink his actions? Especially if he knew how you felt about him when he left.”

“You don’t just fall in love with someone because you feel bad about fucking them over.” Tom rubs a tired hand over his face, sighing. “Look, I want it to be true. I do. But it’s not.”

“I’ll bet you a hundred dollars that Tord looks at you first when he comes back,” Edd says, sounding _completely serious_.

“I bet you a hundred dollars that he comes right to you and talks to you first,” Matt adds. Tom stares at them blankly, uncomprehending.

Edd grins at Matt, saying with perfect sincerity, “Actually, I’ll change my bet to two hundred, and I bet you that he touches you when he gets back.”

Tom’s stomach is in knots, his heart pounding under his ribs, and he can barely make his mouth work enough to feebly spit out, “You’re both mad. I can’t believe what I have to put up with.” The two of them look far too smug for Tom’s liking, but Tom can hear Tord returning in that moment so he loses the chance to properly chastise them. Matt and Edd disperse to get settled with their respective instruments as Tord shuts the door behind him, leaving Tom to move to his electric guitar where it sits in a stand and pluck it from its cradle. 

Tord, true to Edd and Matt’s predictions, comes right to him. “Hey,” Tord greets with a small smile. When he moves closer Tom gets a whiff of smoke and cologne and his gut swoops at the appealing combination. “I know we said we were going to work on the music while we wait for the pizza but I—There’s this one verse that I want to work on, it’s driving me crazy.”

Over Tord’s shoulder Tom watches Edd make exaggerated movements, probably pantomiming that Tom should take this chance to be close with Tord. It’s easier said than done but… it has definite appeal. “I know the one you mean,” Tom says, setting Susan back in the stand. “I doubt we’d get much done with the music side of things anyway. I’m sure Edd and Matt’s minds are already on the pizza.”

Tord chuckles, sitting next to Tom at the small table, and flips the scribbler open to their song lyrics. “I’m almost there myself.”

Tom picks up a pen and Tord slides the scribbler between them, leaning toward it and putting them shoulder to shoulder as they read. The contact is light, barely there but deliciously warm, and Tom is sure he doesn’t imagine the way Tord’s head tilts toward him for a few seconds, like he’s looking at him out of the corner of his eye. With the pleasant distraction of Tord’s warmth he reads the same verse three times and still has no recollection of what he’s just read.

“What do you think of using ‘intricate’ here instead of ‘complex’?” Tord murmurs, underlining the word with his pen and then looking up. Tom compulsively looks up too and it puts their faces just breaths apart. The moment hangs there, waiting for a move from either of them. Even though he knows it should be awkward, even though it should give him the same panic and trepidation as it did the last time Tord was this close, Tom is instead utterly distracted by the greenness of Tord’s eyes, caught there by the verdant flecks in his irises and the shiny depths that look right back at him. 

He doesn’t break out of the trance until Tord’s hand comes to rest on his forearm where it lay on the table, slowly curling around his wrist to form a gentle shackle. Tom’s face flushes and he looks away hastily, muttering out a quick, “Yeah, uh—yeah, that sounds better.”

“Okay,” Tord says, nearly a whisper, and moves his other hand—his dominant hand—to scrawl the changed word above the old one. It leaves his left hand free to hold Tom’s wrist in his grip and, with a blockage in his throat that feels suspiciously like courage, Tom lets him leave it there.


End file.
